


Tumult of a thousand wings

by derryderrydown, Petra



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Outsiders
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Calls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-28
Updated: 2005-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy gets a mysterious phonecall and bizarre instructions. This story will self-destruct in 10 seconds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumult of a thousand wings

**Author's Note:**

> Context: [These scans](http://www.livejournal.com/community/scans_daily/547772.html) from the post-Graduation Day Secret Files & Origins. It may be more comprehensible to those who have read Outsiders #21.

After the tenth time of getting shunted to Dick's answering machine, Roy slams his phone down and finds himself at the window, leaning against the glass. The streetlights are just flicking on when his phone rings.

Dick, he thinks, and he vaults the sofa to get to the phone before Dick changes his mind. "Hi," he says and falls back on to the sofa.

There's no answer.

"Dick. C'mon, man, you can talk to me. You've got to."

"Corner of 4th and 87th. Pick up the box there."

It isn't Dick and Roy tenses. "Why? Who is this?"

But the phone is dead and he's left staring at the receiver.

4th and 87th isn't too far away, anyway, and he could use a run.

* * * * *

It had taken him a while to find the box -- a battered brown cardboard thing in a phone booth. The only clue that it was for him was the arrow drawn on the side in red magic marker. That and the fact that, when a homeless man started to pick it up, he started, dropped it and ran. When Roy checked the box, there were wires and he half-expected his own electric shock, but he was able to rip out the wires without protest.

Now the box is on his bed and he's unpacking it and wondering just who the lunatic on the phone was.

Black pants, with the familiar scent of kevlar under the smell of the leather. Deep red and black shirt; matching leather jacket; shoulder holster; boots that are so damned hot he almost doesn't care who the lunatic was. Underneath it all, a note: "Crew cut. Shave."

And -- why the hell not?

He cuts his hair, gets dressed -- checks his butt out in the mirror -- and the cell rings.

"Go to the window."

"...is this Oracle?"

"Go to the window."

"Oh -- oh fuck."

The voice is low and -- he doesn't like to think it but -- sexy. He obeys.

He feels stupid standing there, lights bright inside so all he can see is his own reflection and the occasional ghostly light from the city.

"You missed a spot, shaving."

"Call me a rebel."

"Then you can't take instructions."

"I can. The ones that matter."

The voice chuckles. "Unfasten your pants."

"Who is this?" But he says it while he's unbuttoning his pants. Slowly, and he didn't mean to make it a show but he is.

"That depends on whether you do as I say."

"Can't you see I am?"

A chuckle, deep and warm and disturbing. "I can see more than you think. Slow down."

"Slow?" Roy grins at his own reflection, making it as dirty as he can. Rubs his hand slowly over his crotch and his swelling erection. "I can do slow."

"Better. Though those boxers aren't part of the uniform."

"I improvised." Roy shrugs and makes it lazy.

"There's a knife in the sole of the boots. Get rid of the boxers." A pause. "I don't like improvisation, Arsenal."

Roy lifts his left foot.

"Right boot."

It takes a moment to find the bulge at the heel of his boot, to press it down until the knife springs loose with a click. "A-ha." Roy pulls it out and tests the balance. "Not bad."

"Of course."

Roy waits but there's no more coming. So he pushes the pants down a little, until he can slip the knife under the edge of his boxers. The fabric falls apart with barely any pressure and he's careful as he runs the knife up to the waistband. He echoes the movement on the other leg and then yanks the boxers out. He manages to avoid wincing.

"Stroke yourself," the voice says. Purrs.

"Got it, boss," Roy says, and -- not the word he meant to use, but it makes the voice laugh.

"Maybe you'll do after all."

Roy isn't paying much attention right now. He's watching his own reflection, watching his fingers curl around his cock. It almost feels as though it's somebody else touching him.

"Wake up," the voice says.

"I'm awake." He has to stop his hand from jerking. "I just -- was wondering what you're wearing."

The voice laughs. "No, Harper. Not like that."

"Like this?" Roy says and he pushes into his hand, slow and easy and making his hips do the work.

"That's it," the voice says.

Roy sighs, deliberately. Lets out a little moan.

"Don't overplay your hand."

"What do you want?"

He can hear the smile in the voice. "I want you to enjoy yourself, Harper."

"Well -- I -- why the uniform?" He thinks about all the uniforms he's worn. About all the uniforms he's peeled off people in the past. About dangerous cleavage and sinfully tight pants and looking like Ollie every time he looked at -- at his reflection.

Looking nothing like Ollie now, with that leather and his cock in his hand.

Almost.

Maybe next time he really will shave off all the beard.

"You have dreadful taste in clothing. If you're going to put a team together for me, I want you looking good."

"A team." It's really not as erotic as the voice seems to want it to sound. "I -- I'm not -- what?"

"You can think about it later. Harder."

Roy's body obeys before his mind has a chance to realize the voice wasn't talking about thinking.

"Push your pants further down." He can practically hear the smile. "You'll need more... access."

"What kind of a team is -- is this -- if -- if this is hazing?"

"Hazing?" The voice sounds thoughtful. "Oh, the usual kind of team. Fight crime and costumed freaks. Keep the world safe for the good guys."

"You -- run a lot of teams?"

"One or two. You could be more subtle in trying to find out who I am."

Roy laughs, breathless. "I'm not -- fuck -- not known for subtlety."

"Slow down, Harper. You're not done yet."

"Nearly am," Roy manages to say.

"You're not." There's no arguing with the voice and Roy stops breathing, bites his lip hard and, no, he isn't done yet.

"So, who's going to -- to be on this team?"

"A group of people. They'll all be -- tested."

Roy's mind goes there immediately. "Nightwing?"

"Perhaps. Finger yourself."

"-- um." Those two thoughts are too close together to separate easily; his finger becomes Dick's finger, or the voice's -- if -- no, it can't be. But it burns and makes him sigh.

"The other prospective members require analysis."

"Oh," Roy says. "Because I don't?"

"I've known you for a long time."

That makes a cold shiver go down his back. "Oh."

"I know you very well, Harper. Better than you know yourself."

It's making Roy nervous.

"I know you're thinking of Nightwing."

Nervous and shivery. Which just makes whoever it is laugh again.

The voice is barely more than a whisper as it says, "Thinking of Grayson."

Roy comes.

"You kn--" The words are almost out before he can stop them. "Who's Grayson?"

"Don't play games with me, Roy."

"Damn it, who are you?"

"Turn out the light."

"I want to know."

"Turn out the light," the voice repeats.

Roy turns away to flick the light switch.

"Look out the window."

On the roof opposite, there's a figure. Too far away to be distinct but there's a black cloak and familiar movements and-- "You," Roy says and he isn't actually surprised.

"You're hired," Batman -- has to be Batman -- says.

"Oh, fuck me." He means it to be sotto voce, but it just isn't.

"Some other time." Then the line is dead and the figure is gone and Roy is left leaning against the cold glass, pants around his thighs.


End file.
